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Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts todayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind,In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be,In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering,In the faith that looks through death,In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,Forebode not any severing of our loves!
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